


The Other Half of M

by soulless_lover



Category: Death Note
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Cutting, Dark, Depression, Drug Addiction, Internal Monologue, M/M, Self-Destruction, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-18
Updated: 2013-03-18
Packaged: 2017-12-05 17:46:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/726083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soulless_lover/pseuds/soulless_lover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set during the time period when Mello is in the mafia; Matt is living alone in New York, struggling to cope without the other half of M.</p><p><b>WARNING:</b> very, very dark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Other Half of M

I miss you, Mello. I miss you so much sometimes it's like there's a rock in my chest instead of a heart, and every time it beats I feel it banging against my ribcage. It's horrible and inescapable and nothing I do helps; not booze, not drugs, not even cutting.

You know, I actually started doing that the day you left Wammy's House. I went into your room - no, not your room anymore, just an empty room, and I knew it'd never be your room again because you never change your mind once you've made it up; if you'd left Wammy's, left _me_ , then you were gone for good. But I went in there anyway, full of questions, crying like an idiot kid but I couldn't stop; I wanted to see if you'd left anything behind, something tangible I could hold, some small part of _you_ that I could keep with me, because you were all I'd ever had, all I'd ever really cared about.

Way back in the back of an otherwise empty dresser drawer, I found it - your razor, the one you always kept hidden because you didn't want anyone to know you shaved your legs. It was the only thing I'd ever seen you do that you were ashamed of; everything else you did, no matter what, you always stuck to your guns and dared anyone to give you shit about it. But that razor, that girly little plastic razor with the stupid flowers imprinted on the handle, that was one of your most prized possessions, and you'd left it behind. Why? Was it because you didn't feel the need to hide anything anymore? Were you discarding your shame like you discarded Wammy's House? Like you discarded me?

I took that razor and looked at it, and it seemed shiny and sharp - the only way I could tell it had been used was that there were a few tiny little segments of hair caught between the blades, fine and blond. It suddenly occurred to me that you might have nicked yourself with it at some point, and your blood might still be on it somewhere, just like those hairs... and then I was struck by the idea that if I cut myself with it, I could mix my blood with yours, and you'd be a part of me forever. I know, I know. It's stupid and weird and illogical - but I was a fourteen-year-old kid who'd just lost his best friend, his boyfriend, and his first love all in one go... what do you want from me?

I thought about taking the razor back to my room, but it seemed more appropriate somehow to do it there, to lay myself open in the presence of your memory and absorb whatever I could. I was honestly scared shitless, and my first couple of attempts resulted in epic failure - but once I had studied the blades and how they were set into the handle, and decided upon a place that seemed ideal for the angle I'd need to use, it came almost naturally: I just set it against my arm, a little pressure, a little _swip_ sound as the blade sliced through the skin, and suddenly my blood was dripping onto the carpet that wasn't yours anymore. And it felt... not exactly _good_ , but comforting, I guess. Whether it was from the idea of our blood mingling, or just a sudden drop in blood pressure, I didn't know. Didn't care, either. All I knew was that the rock in my chest was smaller, and the pain of your loss wasn't _quite_ as bad, and that was sufficient enough for me to continue doing it for the rest of my life.

The problem is, since I saw you here in New York last spring, the rock has returned - and now it's a fucking boulder, this enormous, bulky weight that fills my chest, crowds my internal organs, causes me constant pain. It's not something I can just ignore, and you know me, I'm shit at handling emotional pain. Physical pain, sure - hell, I got plenty of practice raising my pain tolerance when you were around, as much as you smacked and pinched and punched me. But mental pain can _fuck right off._ That shit hangs around like a cold that won't go away, and it gnaws at my sanity until I do something crazy to make it stop, like drink an entire bottle of whiskey or go to a club and take whatever drug some stranger gives me, or just sit in the bathtub and cut and cut and cut, thinking that somehow, some way, if I can just bleed enough, I'll finally bleed you out of me, and the pain, the misery, the depression, the desperation, the craving and loneliness and longing will finally, _finally_ be gone.

But it never works.

Because you're a _part_ of me, like you have been since the day you arrived at Wammy's and introduced yourself by tripping over my knapsack and punching me in the arm like it was my fault. You're Mello, _my_ Mello, the other half of M. Without you, I'm just Matt. Just Matt. And I hate it. I hate _me_. I hate that I've fallen so low, that I just can't fucking function without you, even after all these years of trying. And god, have I tried. Hours upon hours upon hours of gaming, losing myself in pretty 3D worlds full of swords and spells and materia and angsty, badass heroes who always found peace at the end. Days and nights of chainsmoking and sitting around staring into space, numb from whatever drug of choice I'd smoked or swallowed or snorted or shot up. Weeks upon weeks upon months upon _years_ of dreams in which you showed up on my doorstep, looking tired and rained-on and disheveled and beautiful, and you'd tell me you had missed me _so much_ , and we'd kiss like we'd never stop and fall to the floor and start fucking and I'd come so hard I'd wake myself up - and once I realized none of it had been real, I'd sit there covered in my own come, trying to smoke and cry at the same time, a pathetic mess of a Wammy's House reject.

I only have those dreams once or twice a month now, and you'd think by now I'd be wary every time I open a door and see you standing there, but I still fall for it _every goddamn time_ , because I so want it to be true that I just can't let it go. I can't turn you away from my dream doorstep. Dream You is the only You that keeps coming back. That still wants me. That missed me _so much._

Where are you, Mello? Do you miss me? Do you ever even think of me? Do you feel as though you're missing your other half, too? No, probably not. You've got enough balls and swagger to more than make up for my measly half - you could be M for both of us. Shit, you could be the entire fucking alphabet if you wanted to. Ahahahaha, now I'm just being stupid. The smack must be kicking in.

You know, even the drugs don't help all that much anymore; it's gotten to the point where I do it so often that I have to take larger and larger doses to dull that rock down to a more manageably-sized pebble, just like how I have to cut more and more and more times to bleed the pain out so I can think. I know one day I'll probably slip up, cut too deep or let myself bleed for too long, or I'll get stronger dope than usual and shoot up my normal amount and end up ODing because I just did the equivalent of five days' worth of mainlines - but I'm not really sure how much I care anymore. I don't think I'm totally suicidal - I'm too chickenshit to just _off_ myself, at any rate, otherwise I'd have just put a forty-five in my mouth ages ago - but some part of me keeps hoping, keeps praying, that _this_ might be the day when I just don't wake up. That the heroin'll be laced with something even nastier. That the giant stone in my chest finally just crushes the life out of me, and then I won't have to bear this anymore. God, I hate this.

I hate knowing that you could leave me not once, but _twice_ , knowing that if I'd done something differently, if I had proven myself worthy of being the other half of M, you'd have invited me to come along and live in your world, the only world I ever cared about that didn't have save points and menu screens. I hate myself for doing whatever it was that outed me as useless and unworthy, and sometimes, I hate _you_ for driving me into such hellish despair... but that only makes me hate myself more, because you're right about me. You always were, always had been. You knew when I was trying to bullshit you, you knew when I was getting lazy about my studies, you knew when I was upset about something even when I thought I had a perfect poker face. And when we met again, on that day that was so bright and beautiful, so full of sunshine and promise, when I saw you walking towards me I thought I was dreaming again... and then you spoke and you were real and I thought that finally, everything was going to be all right. And you knew how happy I was, how relieved, how overjoyed I was to see you, didn't you? Even though I tried so hard to act and sound so casual, you knew I felt like you had finally shown up to save me from my own personal piece of hell... didn't you?

So how could you not have known I'd end up like this, a hopeless drug addict living in a shitty rundown apartment full of trash, getting thinner and thinner as I care less and less about food and hygiene and health and just fucking _living?_ You couldn't honestly tell me you didn't know what would happen when you looked me in the eye that day and said it: "Matt, you're not coming with me." I'd be a liability, a weak point, something you'd have to mind and watch over and take care of, because whatever the fuck it is you _do_ for a living makes it that way, and you didn't want to be held back. You didn't need the dead weight of me pulling you down from the lofty heights you've always dreamed of achieving, didn't want to be responsible for me, my life, my happiness. You had to have known when you got into that shiny black Caddy with those big bruisers and left me standing there on the sunny sidewalk, watching you leave me again, that you were destroying me. It would've been kinder to just shoot me - I know you had a gun, I saw it. _Why didn't you just fucking shoot me?_ Why the hell did you condemn me to this pale, wandering existence where nothing matters and nothing is _ever_ going to be all right and no matter how many rungs I add to the ladder of scars on my arm, it _never stops hurting?_

I wish I could bleed you out of me. You're eating me alive from the inside out, and soon there'll be nothing left.

I miss you, Mello. God, I miss you so much. I wish I could have been whatever it was you wanted me to be, but I'm just Matt, and I'm nothing special. You deserve someone special, someone worthy of being the other half of you, not this broken, fucked-up junkie who can't get over being abandoned by the only person he ever loved enough to want in his blood. Fuck, I just said that, didn't I? Yeah. I guess I did. Hell, I'm not even gonna bother blaming it on the drugs or this bottle of Jack that wasn't nearly this empty the last time I looked at it. I loved you. Love you, Mello. Always have, always will, until I'm gone and only my half of M is left for you to take.

I wish you had just shot me. 

 

END.


End file.
